The Price of Knowing: A Powers of Influence Novel (The Powers of Influence Book 2)

by C. B. Haight

  The bartender grunted, brushing them off. “You’re nuts, the pair of ya. 'Sides, if he was gonna rob me, why didn’t he just come in and do it? Ya big dolt.”

  There was a pause in the conversation, and Jarrett began replacing the towel because no alternative bandage was available. He eased his jacket back on, covering the blood on his shirt before bending to pick up his pack. Just as he reached for the door, he heard the man, Bill, talking again. Curious, he waited.

  “No kiddin’ you take a good look when he comes back out. Mark my words, if you slap some flames on that boy’s head and put a chain in his hand, you just might have the makings of the devil’s bounty hunter. What’s his name?”

  “Ghost Rider?” his friend replied.

  “Yeah, that’s him! That boy looks like bad news.”

  Jarrett couldn’t help but smirk at the irony of the aging man’s comment. He was, after all, a bounty hunter of sorts, and the leader of The Faction was certainly devilish.

  He turned the knob and exited the bathroom to see all three men staring at him once again. Jarrett could almost see the two blustering men picturing him with a flaming head. Bothered by the attention, but not showing it, he approached them. He laid a hundred on the scarred wood. “A bottle of whiskey,” he ordered gruffly.

  Without a word, the bartender moved to grab a bottle of Jack from the shelf and a cup for drinking. He set both down, the glass clattering as he did. He moved to get change, but Jarrett stopped him, “For two of your cleanest towels, and you can keep the rest.” Puzzled, the bartender drew his eyes together scrutinizing him. “No questions.” Jarrett said sharply.

  Skeptical, but willing to take the extra fifty, he popped the money in the till and leaned down to grab the requested towels. While his back was turned, Bill and his friend watched the exchange with avid interest and speculation.

  Jarrett looked at the pair of men. He couldn’t resist the urge to give these boys something to really gossip about. He tipped his sunglasses down and let the wolf come out just enough to turn his eyes a glowing crimson. The maneuver was quick, and they barely saw it, but the jaws of both men practically hit the floor. Disbelief and fear covered their faces, and they simultaneously leaned back in their chairs away from Jarrett.

  The bartender straightened and set the two towels down on the counter next to the whiskey. Jarrett snatched up the bottle and towels, leaving the glass behind. He gave a curt nod to the three men and excited, knowing he gave them a story to talk about long after tonight. As he left, he heard both men scrambling to tell the bartender what they saw in disjointed words, talking over one another. He also heard the bartender bark out, “That’s it boys. I think you’ve had enough. No more drinks tonight.”

  Jarrett slunk to yet another alley behind the bar and sought shelter in the shadows. Last night, hiding in an alley hadn’t worked. He’d been attacked by a nasty little half-demon leech that trailed him. The little monster was barely 20. It was ridiculous really. They were sending anyone they could after him, and Jarrett knew it was to wear him down. Given enough attacks, even he couldn’t fight forever. They would succeed eventually.

  Sighing, he leaned against the aged brick wall and lifted the bottle of whiskey to look at it longingly. Jarrett twisted the cap and smelled the rich amber liquid, bitter that such things didn’t work on him. He would have welcomed any relief from his troubles.

  Steeling himself, he lifted his shirt and pulled off the used towel. He poured whiskey over his stab wound and grunted through his teeth as he felt the painful sting of alcohol bite into the infection. The liquid ran down his side and soaked his clothing, leaving the scent of whiskey in his head as he repeated the process. After he finished, Jarrett gently pressed one of the new towels to his side. Grimacing, he held it there, breathing through clenched teeth.

  He cursed, not for the first time, and lamented how exhausted he was. He knew it must be close to midnight at this point. The infection was taking a huge toll on him. Coupled with the tiny snippets of sleep he had, his body was heavy and worn. At the moment, he felt every decade of his long life. Jarrett gave into the weariness and slid down the wall to the cold, filthy ground behind a dumpster.

  With his knees bent, he leaned forward to rest his head on one arm while the other still held the towel in place. “Just a few minutes,” he whispered. It took less than one minute for him to pass out completely.

  Jim McFarland finished counting the till and began cleaning up as his nightly routine demanded. He had been running his little, non-descript bar for almost twenty years, and like every other night, he cleaned mugs, wiped counters, and emptied the trash. It was a pattern that was as simple and natural as breathing. In recent years, his routine included thinking, I’m too old for this, and he considered retiring for the hundredth time that year. Ultimately though, he knew he would be too bored and lonely if he retired. This was home, and the work gave him comfort.

  He finished collecting the trash and headed out into the alley to toss the two bags. As he stepped out toward the dumpster, he unexpectedly found himself tripping and almost falling over a huge heap of a man lying at his feet. He stumbled and danced with an agility that defied his years until he regained his balance. Then he turned to see what homeless twit had camped out in his alley this time.

  The sight before Jim left him stunned, and he dropped the bulging trash bags. For almost a full minute, Jim could do nothing but stare, dumbstruck, at the big biker that graced his bar earlier and left his two best friends stuttering about red demon eyes.

  He moved cautiously toward the prone figure. “Hey there, boy. You alright?” he asked, but there was no response. Jim tried kicking the toe of a heavy boot next, but he still received no response. Thinking the stranger may possibly be dead, for he certainly looked pale enough to be, Jim crouched down to shake the man. When he got closer, something drew his attention to the man’s middle. The open leather jacket revealed a dark stain covering the black shirt, and a bulge lay underneath. Jim had been in enough bar fights to recognize blood when he saw it, even if it was dark.

  He carefully reached over to where the wound must be and eased the t-shirt up. Jim immediately understood why the man had paid so much for the towels. One towel had been tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and the once bleached-white towel displayed a dark, brownish-red stain from blood that soaked into its fibers.

  As he peeled back the towel to inspect the wound, a hand gripped his wrist with brutal force. Startled, Jim looked up with wide eyes and found unnatural golden orbs staring back at him. Despite the obvious pain in them, Jim saw a cold, lethal glint as well and didn’t doubt that the young wanderer could easily kill a man—even in his current pitiful state. “Easy there,” Jim reassured.

  “What are you doing?” Jarrett demanded between his teeth.

  “Just tryin' to help ya, son. Come on inside and let me have a look at that wound.”

  Shaking off the haze in his head, recognition slowly came back to Jarrett. He released the old bartender’s hand and began moving to stand up. He barely managed it. The bartender tried to steady him, but Jarrett pushed him aside. He stumbled forward like a slobbering baby taking his first step. Again, the old man caught him. “Come on, son. Let’s go. I have a cot in the back you can lie on.”

  “Can’t…” Jarrett mumbled, shaking his pounding head as he tried to straighten once more.

  “You can barely stand. Let’s get ya inside, and ya can rest a bit. You’ll feel better for it.”

  Jarrett looked down into Jim’s kind, brown eyes and knew he really had no choice. Despite the fact that staying in one place too long was risky, he couldn’t keep going like this. The wounded werewolf could barely move. His tongue felt thick and heavy, and his head continued throbbing relentlessly.

  Finally conceding, Jarrett inclined his head toward the bar. They moved forward together with slow, staggering steps. Jarrett leaned on the old man more than he would have liked to. They stumbled in, making their way through the
back room to a little office that held the meager cot, as promised, against one wall. Jim kept it here for those extra late nights, times when the storms kept him from getting home, or for the occasional over-indulger in the bar.

  Jim helped ease Jarrett down onto the cot and heard him groan in pain as his body bent. Once his guest was lying down, Jim left, and Jarrett closed his eyes. He heard movement in the other room but ignored it. He must have drifted out again for a few minutes, because the next thing Jarrett knew, he felt his shirt being lifted once more. Instinctively, his hand shot out to grab the person touching him. “Leave it,” he snarled.

  “Not likely boy,” Jim retorted unafraid. “It needs to be tended. Let me have a look and clean ya up,” he finished in a fatherly tone.

  Jarrett stared at him for a moment before releasing his grip on the old man’s hand, relaxing again. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain of having the inflamed gash examined. He felt the towel being pulled from tender skin and heard the bartender suck in a breath when he saw the damage.

  “You need a doctor or better yet, a hospital!” Jim exclaimed.

  Opening his eyes, Jarrett replied firmly, “No doctor.”

  “Are you mad boy? This is gonna kill you before too much longer. This cut is deep.”

  “It will heal,” Jarrett insisted.

  “Boy, you must be nine kinds of stupid. This stinks of infection,” he replied as he pressed a warm, wet cloth to puckered skin. When Jarrett didn’t wince or flinch, he looked at it more closely. “Whoever did this to you wanted ya dead, and it seems to me, they might get their wish if ya don’t get help.”

  With his eyes closed, Jarrett couldn’t help but acknowledge the accurate assessment with a grunt. He began drifting again and tried to force himself to pay attention.

  “Ya need stitches.”

  “No hospital,” Jarrett mumbled weakly.

  Jim sighed. Resigned, he continued cleaning the angry slash in the stranger’s side. “It’s your life then,” Jim relented. “You can stay here tonight, and then we’ll see what’s what in the mornin’.” When he didn’t hear a reply, Jim looked at Jarrett’s face and realized he had passed out again. Shaking his head in disbelief, Jim shifted from cleaning to bandaging the wound as best he could.

  It went against his own way of thinking, but Jim respected the wish to avoid any doctors. Jim always figured a man’s business was his own. He just hoped the boy would rethink it in the morning.

  After he finished dressing the injury, Jim moved to his desk and began to balance his books. His eyes became heavy, and he propped his legs up on the desk to prepare for an uncomfortable night in the chair.

  Sleep overtook him, and when his bobbing head and aching back eventually forced him awake, it was 5:38 a.m. He looked over to check on his surprise patient, half expecting to find him dead, and realized that the cot was empty. The biker was gone, and in his place, the blanket lay folded with one of his own envelopes resting on top. He swung his legs down from his desk, ambled over, and snatched up the envelope. Upon looking inside, he found $200 cash and “Thanks” written on a post-it.

  “Well I’ll be,” he muttered to himself and went about his daily chores, wondering who the mysterious man was.

  Niall tried to focus on what the pathetic man before him was saying, but he got caught up noticing the underling's weaknesses. His face was pockmarked from scarring caused by acne long ago, and his balding head often glistened with sweat. He wore small wire frames on his sharp-angled nose, and he spoke in a whiny, nasal tone instead of commanding the authority of the position he held. It was almost sickening to look at a creature such as the one standing in front of him, knowing his origins.

  Niall often had to tolerate these things with mild disgust, but today, in his current mood, it was almost unbearable. As his influence grew over the years, so did his impatience with mortal imperfections. Now that he knew what true power was, he found dealing with humans repulsive—especially when they looked like this.

  His aide was a weak, needy kind of man who repeatedly looked for someone else to save him. There was a time in Niall's life when he would have helped the man, but he had learned since then. He had learned the value of real power. Niall smirked, Stupid humans, always seeking a hero to save them from problems of their own making. Pathetic!

  Currently, this man served Niall's purposes, and while filling a specific need, he remained ever obedient and eager to please. He would outlive his usefulness, as they all did, but Niall would put up with his shortcomings until then.

  “Sir, did you hear what I said?" the pitiful human, Victor, dared question.

  Niall tipped his head at a curious angle but said nothing.

  "Three of the five have not reported for two days, and any attempts to reach them have been unsuccessful," he repeated.

  Already knowing this, Niall nodded and answered coldly, "That is unfortunate."

  "You're not upset?" Victor asked, clearly bothered by Niall's indifference to the death of those sent to hunt Jarrett.

  Niall gave him a sinister smile. "I hardly believed killing him would be so simple," he assured. "It is a matter of wearing him down. Anyone who does not succeed is merely fodder and of no value to me."

  Realizing the weight of his own accountability, Victor turned to leave, but Niall stopped him, "Wait." The pasty man twisted. "It is past time we dealt with the woman. This should be enough to get you started." Niall waved his hand, and a file appeared on the desk. "Find her, and deal with it. Send whomever you wish." Victor picked up the file and went to leave once more. As he opened the door, Niall commanded in a tone full of dark promises, "Quickly, this time. I tire of waiting."

  "Yes, sir," his assistant replied somberly and ducked out to do his master's bidding.

  Chapter 8

  As the group returned to the house, they went to the comfortable parlor to discuss what happened. Cade laid the sleeping Collett on the couch, and Jeffery and Cynda rested in a chair. By unspoken agreement, they patiently waited for Jeffery to regain his strength. While they waited, Jenny bustled in with coffee, herbal tea, and a tray of fresh baked muffins. Cade watched from his perch on the edge of the couch by Collett as Jeffery practically inhaled three.

  More than twenty minutes later and still slightly pale, Jeffery stood. “I can wake her now so we can talk,” he said.

  Nodding his assent, Cade stood and moved only as far as necessary for Jeffery to work. Releasing a calming breath to center himself, Jeffery bent over Collett. He waved his hands over her face, snapped his fingers, and her eyes fluttered open. He moved out of the way so Cade could help her sit up, and a worried Jenny bustled over to put a cup of warm tea in her hands.

  Returning to his seat, Jeffery began the conversation, “I know that Cynda, Cade, and I saw most of what Collett saw, but I think we should go over it for Nate and Rederrick.”

  “I thought I was the only one there with her,” Cade stated.

  “No, it kinda works like electricity. We were a conduit. Her thoughts passed through us via you because we were magically linked, but we get a muted version. That’s why it’s blurry,” Jeffery explained.

  “All right then, who wants to give Nate and me the whole story?” Rederrick asked.

  “I think Collett should, since it was the clearest for her,” suggested Cynda.

  Collett nodded, and brushing her hair away from her face, began to recount the events for everyone. She told them how she thought he must be in a city of some type because of the surroundings and that Jarrett still believed she was a dream.

  When they discussed his physical condition, she informed them he was fighting a fever and his side was burning. She explained that no matter how he moved it hurt him. Cade looked away as she described his injuries in detail, and she sensed his frustration. She understood it bothered him that she also felt the pain.

  Collett changed the subject by reciting her conversation with him and finishing with his intentions to go be with her, whomever that m
ay be.

  “That’s a bit of a letdown then. We’re no better off now than we were before that whole light show are we?” Nate observed.

  Jeffery held up a hand as he finished off a fourth muffin. “We know where he is going, or at least one of us does.”

  Cade drew his brows together quizzically, so Jeffery went on as he brushed his hands together to get rid of any crumbs clinging to them. “It was a spell cast to determine his location, and the magic I evoked wouldn’t have ended until we got that information. Blood magic is dangerous because it lacks the control most other magic’s have. You can’t just start and stop it with will alone. The caster must set and meet certain parameters.”

  “And if we didn’t meet them?” Cade asked darkly.

  “It would have drained all my strength until there was none left,” he replied easily, as if it was obvious.

  Nobody said anything for a long time. His revelation was too unexpected, and they didn’t know how to respond. Jeffery acted as if he evoked such magic often, and it was no big deal that he placed his life in danger when he did so.

  “Collett and Cynda too?” Cade inquired, irritated that Jeffery hadn’t told them sooner.

  “No, Collett and Cynda were connected through me. If my heart stopped, the spell would have released them. I told you I would not hurt them, and I meant it,” Jeffery declared with conviction as he met Cade’s accusing eyes.

  Cynda felt the need to refocus the conversation before anyone thought too much on Jeffery’s proclamation. She made a mental note to discuss it with him later. “So we should know about where he is, but how do we figure out who knows what he meant? I would think it is one of you three, because you’ve had personal contact with him in the past,” Cynda finished, indicating Collett, Jeffery, and Cade.

  Jeffery nodded, “It’s Collett.”

  “Why Collett?” Rederrick asked.

  “Because Collett was the connection, and his words were a reference to someone she knew. Jarrett didn’t know the rest of us could see him or that we were even there. He was speaking only to her.”